


Bad Luck

by EleanorK



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Caryl, F/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EleanorK/pseuds/EleanorK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She turned off the lantern and then they were both in darkness. Listening to the rain on the roof of the cabin. Daryl was cold. Not terribly cold, but cold enough. The blankets they’d found were shitty scratchy ones, the kind you’d use in emergencies, nothing you’d sleep with by choice. He thought, almost lovingly, of his own bunk back at the prison, with the piles of random blankets they’d accumulated, in runs and in searching through the grounds. How much warmer it was. But he’d never spent a night in his bunk with Carol being so short and pissed off right across from him. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: takes place between Season 3-4, while still in the prison.

Carol was running when he caught up to her, her hair wet from the rain, jacket torn and face full of blood. He only slowed for a minute and she climbed on the bike and then he pitched through the ditch at full speed.

“Where are the others?” Daryl yelled as they slid past a turned-over semi.

“They’re behind on the bridge,” she said. “I was the only one who made it through after you. I don’t know if Michonne and Rick made it back to the car. I would have gone back but then they… they started coming up. Out of the water and there were so many of them…”

“Do we go back?”

“I don’t know. Rick said to find you.”

She stopped talking, just gripped him harder and he kept driving faster. He knew to stop asking questions. He didn’t want to know. And he didn’t know what Rick meant. Did Rick expect him to know what to do? How the fuck should he know? A supply run gone bad was one thing. But none of them expected the goddamn bridge to go out, especially when there was no one on it. No one and nothing. Until the creek started to churn with walkers. And with Carol along for the ride, to top it off. Carol wasn’t helpless, but she didn’t work with the group like Maggie and Michonne did. She wasn’t used this kind of shit. Maggie was sick; Michonne and Rick were on their own. They were only after fucking diapers and batteries and gas. That was it. And now they were fucked.

He stopped the bike in an underpass. They just sat there, quiet, the engine popping and clicking a bit. 

“I gotta think.”

“Okay,” Carol said. She got off the bike to watch his back. He stared ahead. The road was creepily empty. They didn’t normally take this route and now he knew the reason. It was bad luck, this way. 

He turned, looked at Carol. She had her back to him, her hand on her knife at her belt. Was just watching things, the rain dripping down all over her, sliding down the back of her jacket. 

“Carol,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “I just…I don’t.” He hated to say it, but he couldn't lie.

She turned and he saw the blood on her face, from a long cut across her forehead. He handed her his red handkerchief and nodded at the blood. 

She dabbed at the cut. Blinked at him.

“How much gas in that tank?” she asked.

“Enough.”

“That sign’s for a rest stop,” she said. 

“That could be trouble.”

“And this isn't? It’s storming, Daryl,” she said. “And we’re out exposed. There might be a map there, at least.”

He nodded and she got back on the bike. He swore her grip wasn’t as tight this time.

***

The rest stop was a disaster. Mudslide around the entrance ramp made it impassable, though Daryl was able to slurry through and get back on the main road without attracting more than a few walkers. 

“Try that campground up next,” Carol shouted. 

He didn’t want to do that, but it was the next thing on this eerie bad luck road, and so he didn’t argue.

He cut the bike’s engine once they approached the campground entrance, which was a broken chain attached to a sign that said CLOSED. 

“Let me push the bike,” Carol said.

“What for?” he asked. He still thought of it as Merle’s bike, strange enough. He still didn’t want anyone messing with it. As if Merle could still get pissed at him or something.

“You want to pick off walkers, or push the damn bike?” Carol said, her voice tight. 

He nodded. He let her push the bike. He picked off one walker less than a minute later and though he had his back to her while he reclaimed the bolt, he swore he could hear her mutter about it. Like, I told you so. 

But that walker was the only one and by the time they got to the little ranger cabin, he was even more uncomfortable. As if the bad luck road was following them all the way to this place, too. And he couldn’t even defend them against it. The rain was lessening into mist, but the sun was nearly down now and they needed to clear this cabin in order to survive the night. Otherwise, he didn’t know. Climb up in a tree? Who said walkers couldn’t climb?

But then Carol set the bike on its stand and then she was at the door, kicking at it. Was she kicking to make noise or trying to open it? He felt annoyed, but didn’t want to yell at her. After all, he was being pretty dimwitted himself now. He just stood behind her, waiting, looking, expecting the night from the trees around them to attack any second.

Then, with her hip, she pushed the door open with a brutal crack.

Goddammit. She was being careless. Too loud. But she was already in the cabin, looking to clear it. And he was behind her, because what else was he gonna do? 

But just like the bad luck road, the cabin was empty. Unlocked and empty. There was a scattered remains of some animal nest on the floor beside the registration desk, but it looked old, abandoned.

He shined his flashlight up into the ceiling: nothing. Carol shut the door behind him and slid the bolt. 

“Wait…”

“It’s clear,” she said, sounding annoyed. She took off her jacket and shook it over the chair behind the registration desk. Then she started opening cabinets. Ransacking. Quick, as if this were a supply run. He just stood there with his bow and watched her in the dim. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking for towels. For blankets. For water. For _anything,_ Daryl. Jesus Christ. What is going on with you?” She walked toward him and grabbed the flashlight out of his hands and stalked toward another cabinet. This one was locked. 

“Hey, lemme get that…”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, and pulled something out of her side pocket. A bolt cutter. Maggie always carried one just like it. Carol snapped the lock off the cabinet before he could even ask her if that was Maggie’s or what and then she was pulling open boxes. Granola bars, some bottled water, a bag of Halloween candy.

“Is that Fun Dip?” he asked, pushing next to her.

“Hmm?” she said. Distracted. She was digging through the first aid kit, then finding another flashlight, some candles and matches. 

“It’s the grape kind,” he said, holding the packet like it was something holy. “That was always my favorite.”

She looked at him like she wondered if he’d been dropped on his head and he felt like a dumbass. Only when she told him she found a pint of tequila could he look at her again.

**

He didn’t mean to sleep but something was off. And by the time she’d commandeered all the supplies and food and water into a little pile on the registration desk and tossed him some blankets, he couldn’t help it. He'd leaned against the wall, across from the giant map of the camp ground, and just fallen asleep. His hand holding the Fun Dip pack. He slipped it into his coat. Rubbed his face to wake up.

“Carol?”

“I’m here,” she said. He looked up and saw her standing in front of the campground map. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Fell asleep.”

“I know,” she said. “And you didn’t even try the tequila.” He stood, walked over at the supply mountain on the desk. 

“This is shit tequila,” he said.

“Is there any other kind?”

“The good stuff is smoother,” he said. “It’s already open. Did you have some?”

“It came that way,” she said. “Someone’s private stash, maybe.”

“Huh,” he said, rubbing his eyes, shoving the tequila in his back pocket.

“Eat something,” she said. “Then we need to figure out this map and see if there’s another way back that doesn’t involve that bridge.”

“All right,” he said. 

“And fill your pack with that food and water,” she added. “Who knows if we’ll have to bail out of here.”

He nodded. He didn't like being bossed around, but she was right; they had to be ready to flee, no matter what. And not preparing for that – well, that just wasn’t how they operated. That kind of preparing was why they were still all alive. 

He filled his pack, and hers, too, while he ate a granola bar and drank a bottle of water. In one of the desk drawers he found a utility lamp, the kind he'd used to use when he worked on his truck late at night. He clicked it on and carried it over to her where she examined the map.

“Here you go,” he said.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Over there,” he said, shrugging. Crunching his granola bar.

She hung the utility lamp off the edge of the map-frame, pointed at a little squiggle of black with her flashlight. “So if we go through here, then I think we can pick up this road, and there there’s a few miles roundabout and that’ll take us back to the prison.”

“What if they didn’t make it back?”

She pressed her lips together. Sighed.

“I’m just asking,” he said, trying not to be defensive. Failing.

“Whether or not they made it back, we can’t go the way we came,” she said. “The connection isn’t there. We have to just get ourselves back.”

He felt tired again. And like he was going to go crazy.

But he just nodded at her and then she went to set up her bed roll on the floor, a couple of blankets in a pile, her pack for a pillow. 

Across from her, he did the same. Like he was trying to stay on her good side. But he couldn’t really understand it. Why was she so edgy? Was it something he’d done? When he’d said he didn’t know what to do? Or was it the run itself? 

She pulled down the utility light and switched it off. Then they were both in darkness. Listening to the rain on the roof of the cabin. Daryl was cold. Not terribly cold, but cold enough. The blankets they’d found were shitty scratchy ones, the kind you’d use in emergencies, nothing you’d sleep with by choice. He thought, almost sadly, of his own bunk back at the prison, with the piles of random blankets they’d accumulated, in runs and in searching through the grounds. How much warmer it was. But he’d never spent a night in his bunk with Carol being so short and pissed off right across from him. 

“Hey,” he said. Softly, in case she was asleep; he didn’t want to startle her. Piss her off more.

“What,” she said back, her voice even and flat, so he knew she’d been awake.

“What’s the matter,” he asked. “You seem, I don’t know. Freaked out.”

“I _seem_ that way, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that makes sense. Because I _am_ that way, too, Daryl.”

“I’m sorry."

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You didn’t make the bridge collapse.”

“But I should have warned you,” he said. “It’s just one of those things, you know? You go out on a run, and you just have shit happen sometimes.”

“You guys have never had a run that you didn’t come back for that same night,” she said, all huffy.

“I didn’t come back that one time I was looking for Sophia,” he said. 

She paused for a moment before she replied. “That was different.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “Carol. It really wasn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Right. So get some sleep.”

“I can’t fucking sleep, Daryl!” she shouted. “If I could, I would be. Trust me. Jesus Christ.”

He sat up and reached for his flashlight. Trained it on her. She was sitting up, too. Blanket over her shoulders, squinting at the light.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”

She laughed. It was pretty terrible, hearing that laugh. “If there’s one thing I can count on with you, it’s that you don’t tell me bullshit, Daryl. Please, don’t fail me on that now. If you wouldn’t mind.”

He sat beside her. Clicked on the utility light, shut off his flashlight. Pulled the tequila out of his jacket.

“Hey,” he said. “Have some of this. It might taste terrible, but maybe it’ll calm you. Let you sleep?”

She sniffed at the pint. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just stay awake until tomorrow. Until we get home.”

“Don’t think like that. We need to be ready to move.”

“Then why the hell would I drink tequila?”

“You’re not hearing me,” he said, trying not to shout. “You need sleep. You need to be ready. First light, we’ll go. I like the plan, what you saw on the map. All right? It’ll work out.”

“And we’ll have enough gas to go that long way back?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She took a little sip of the tequila and then made the worst pinched-up face. So bad, he almost laughed. But didn’t. She wiped her mouth, licked her lips a little. But she didn’t say anything.

“We can get more gas, if you want," he said, trying to soften her. "There’s bound to be some cars on the way. This road? This road is weird. I’ve been thinking it’s almost unreal. Creepy. Bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Because, there’s barely any walkers. No cars. It feels strange. Like there’s something out there, beyond the geeks, you know? Some other fucking thing. Ghosts or something.”

She handed him the tequila and he took a sip. Shit was bad. Burned, tasted metallic. He was surprised she didn’t flat-out spit it out.

“Bad luck,” she said, leaning her head against the wall with a sad knock. “I think that’s me. On this run.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have come.” She drank more tequila, made that funny face again. It was almost cute. Like a kid being forced to eat her vegetables. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Feels like it,” she said. 

“You’re just thrown,” he said. 

“I’m thrown?” she asked. “Me? Who’s been in a damn daze since all this happened? Mooning around for tequila and candy? I’d think you took a knock on the head, Daryl, with how out of it you’ve been. Another reason to think I’ve jinxed this run. You’re out of your groove. I knocked everything out of what's normal.”

She was closing in on the truth, but he would never admit that. Never. To tell Carol she needed to be back at the prison making soup or tending to kids, that she didn’t earn her place in this group? He would not. They had been through too much; he had seen how strong and brave she was. He would never let her think that about herself. 

“Carol,” he said, trying to sound stern. “Look. Shit happens. Shit _happened_. All right? Hey, listen to me.” He touched her chin, to make her look at him. “This has nothing to do with you. And fuck, if you hadn’t had your wits about you, I don’t know how I’d have made it. You’re the one who got us here. If anyone’s outta of it, it’s been me.”

She tossed her head so he wasn’t touching her. She looked more annoyed. Like she might start yelling at him. He had never seen her like this, so burnt up with anger. And it did something weird to him, unlike when other people got angry around him, which just got him ready to fight. But he couldn’t fight Carol. He didn’t want to talk harsh with her, even. He became very still. Almost like he was the one who was afraid. He looked toward the high window, where the rain was sheeting down. 

Then he felt her hands at his throat. Pushing him against the wall. 

“Carol…?”

And then she herself was all over him. Sitting on him, over his hips, her fingers clawing down his shirt. He was instantly hard. Instantly. He almost wanted to take it back, in case this wasn’t what he thought.

But it was exactly that. Her mouth pressed into his, wide open and wild. The clawing of her nails continued south. He grabbed at her ass, just to keep up. 

She had a great ass, he noticed. He wondered what the fuck was in that tequila. He wondered what his deal was. He just felt so _slow._

And she was fast as hell. Pushing off his coat, unbuttoning her shirt, pulling up his sweater. They were both down to skin in less than a minute but she was already working her pants open, and stuffing his hand under her panties. Where she was dripping wet. 

_Fuck._

He worked his hand into her as best he could but it wasn’t easy, with his hard-on and the angle being bad. Still she was loving it, from the sounds she made. He pressed his face into her chest, licking. Her bra was still on and he wanted it off. He wanted everything off. He’d never been so turned on in his goddamn life. And with _Carol._

Carol, who he’d never felt anything but polite respect for. Carol, now sitting on his hard dick while he tried to jam his fingers into her. What the hell?

Then she stood up. Started pulling off her boots. He scrambled to his own feet. Feeling off balance. He wondered if she wanted him to do the same with his boots. But before he could move she had slipped off her pants and her panties and was pushing him against the wall. Kissing hard again. Her hands unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down. She laughed when she saw he had no underwear on. Like it was a surprise. And she smiled at him. Like for once she was happy. Him doing one goddamn thing right – not wearing any boxer shorts or whatever. 

That smile made him feel like this was Carol again. Carol, who was always kind to him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Carol, who loved the world so much sometimes it seemed like she could barely speak. He knew the feeling. He pulled her ass into both hands, his hard dick brushing up against her. Right there. Her legs went around his waist. He turned her against the wall, his arms lifting her so she was just there, right at the tip of him. 

“Oh god yes,” she said, right into his ear, and he did it, he slammed right into her. Without asking about rubbers or say so. And fuck if it wasn’t the best thing he’d felt in weeks. Months. Goddamn. He felt like he could slam into her hard enough to knock down the wall. And then he spent the next short while doing just exactly that.

But finally, he felt like he couldn’t keep it all up. Holding her up, his feet tangled in his jeans, her boobs still under that damn bra. 

“Baby?” he said. And then immediately wanted to unsay it. Now that his dick was in her, he was calling her names like that? Jesus Christ already.

But she just said, “Uh huh,” her voice sounding high and soft. Licking his neck. Not even flinching.

"Gonna put you down, okay?"

"Okay."

He slid out of her and she lowered, almost reluctantly, from his hips, her knees wobbly as she stood. He knelt down and got his boots off. Jeans, too. Then he pressed his face right into her pussy, both hands around her ass, too. Licking and tasting the salt and the wet and the sweet. Getting it all over his face. Her hands ripped at his hair and he sucked at her, where he hoped was her sensitive spot. He could never reckon what a woman would do when you really got at that spot; sometimes they pushed you away. Sometimes they smacked you away from it, like it hurt. But Carol just trembled and opened her legs wider and somehow, a fucking miracle in this day of all days, he felt her come, right against his mouth, her whole pussy shaking and wet and he swore he could hear her bones crack as her spine flexed back. He'd never felt a woman come like that before, right before his face, and, like most everything else in this day, he couldn't quite believe it had happened.

He slowly stood up. Looked at her, for the first time. She was breathing heavy, still. But looking at him like she’d never looked at him before. Thankful for him. But he'd never seen Carol look this thankful before. Surprised, too. Shocked. Like she was just realizing where she was. Who she was.

“Daryl.”

“Yeah.”

She went to speak again, but then didn’t. She shook her head, laid her arms gently around his neck. 

He kissed her. Soft. Like a first kiss should go, now that he’d softened her up. Her sweetness was all over his mouth, now hers, too. And this was the Carol he knew best. The one he admired and never wanted to hurt. His arms went around her and he gripped her so tight. She was so tough, he knew she was. But right now she felt so much slighter. He didn’t see her like that, normally. But now he could feel it, touching her spine, and her ribs: how fragile she was. How well she hid it. 

His fingers slipped under the straps of her bra, somehow undoing it and then he touched her breasts, which were small and pretty and popped up at attention for him. She sighed while he traced his fingers over them, sighed like she could barely stand it, and then he said, “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Then don’t wait,” she said. She knelt down, laid herself out on the floor and he wanted to keep that forever, the view of her below him, her body pale as milk against the dark wood, her legs open and perfect. Her eyes closed, like a woman at prayer.

He grabbed both knees, opened her wider, kissed the inside of her thigh. And then that was it for softness. He just rammed into her, full speed. All the way. And she screamed his name, her eyes flying open. Hands at his shoulders, watching him stretch above her, her ankles around his ass. She felt perfect to him. An exact fit. He was never sure about anything with sex, mostly, but this time he didn’t second guess, and when he came, he felt her hands claw his ass like she never wanted him to pull out again.

**

“Water?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sitting up and take it from her. She was naked but for her boots. He sat up in the pile of blankets they’d thrown together and gulped down the water. 

He’d never felt this bone-tired. This blown-out satisfied. This _good._

She sat beside him, her hands on her knees. 

“You’re calling me ma’am now?” she asked, taking the bottle back from him and having some herself.

“I _am_ a gentleman,” he said, slipping a hand between her legs until she squirmed and yelped, swatting him away. He laughed, licked his fingers.

They'd been eating his Fun Dip he'd saved in his jacket and now she licked the little white stick clean again. Then she kissed him, her mouth tasting like grape. 

"Tastes damn good."

"The grape's almost gone," she said.

"You finish it."

"You sure?"

“Uh huh. You calmed down?” he asked. “Feeling a little better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She crumpled up the Fun Dip, and tossed it aside. Then she laughed to herself. Laid down and pulled the blanket over her. 

“If I’d known that was what it was going to take, I’d have jumped you sooner,” she said.

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“Can’t imagine that,” he said. “You attacking me in the prison. Everyone around.”

“I would never do that with everyone around.”

“Such a lady,” he said, bending down to kiss her. 

“We make a nice set,” she said, moving his hair out of his face.

“Think you’re right.” He kissed her mouth, then her nose. Examined the cut on her forehead, ran his mouth over that, too, until she shivered. He felt like he could relax, finally, too. Now that they’d done this, and it had been good. It hadn't been in his mind, but now he saw it for what it was: him and Carol, an unanswered question. He wondered if everyone had seen it, too. Been waiting for them this whole time to finally give an answer.

But now he didn't care except that she was next to him. He just wanted to sleep. Though he could see the sky lightening, just a bit. The rain had stopped. It’d be dawn soon. He laid beside her, coiling his arm around her. She offered up some blankets and they pressed together for warmth.

“Do you think it’s still bad luck, Carol?” he said, his eyes closed.

“No,” she said. “Like you said: shit happens. But sometimes you find out it happens for a reason.”

“I don’t believe in all that. God making shit go wrong just to make something right.” He smoothed his hand across her belly, over her hip, feeling like he wanted to own her and never let go. 

“God, luck, shit happening. Call it whatever you want, Daryl.” She yawned and kissed his chest, right above his heart. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure it out.”

“It’s already tomorrow, darling.”

“We’ll figure it out when we wake up, then,” she said, laying her head on his chest. He tightened his arms around her more and then just as he felt the first bits of light from the window warm his face, he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something wrong with him before the bad luck road run and now it was worse.

He couldn't talk about it, not even with Carol. Not even now, when she came to his bunk late at night, stripped off her clothes, his, too, and did everything he could imagine in the dark to him.

Some things he'd never imagined, as well.

A few times, after he'd finished and she was sweaty and dazed - the woman could come a dozen times, he swore she had some knack or magic within her - he'd lie there thinking about telling her. About how he was breaking. Or whatever it was. The thing in him that was making him question. Making him pause, lose his nerve.

The thing in him that Merle could always see. That Merle could slap out of him, with a look, or even a fist. "Mama's little sweetie boy," he'd said, more than once. Merle could see it, all right; the thing in him that Carol didn't believe existed. His weakness.

Merle was gone now. Maybe that's why it was getting harder to fight it?

Maybe he didn't trust what they had going. Maybe it was all the extra time he'd had now, now that things were stable, that they weren't on the run all the time anymore, and that was making him into a pussy. Making him think about things he hadn't thought about before. Things he didn't like to think about.

Like checking out. Like giving up. Like seeing the point of people who had.

One day, he was standing outside the cellblock, waiting for Glenn to go on a run, thinking about this shit. How tired he was. How sick of everything he was. How he just needed something. Not just what Carol gave him on the nights she came to his cell, though he sure as hell liked it when she'd come to him, always unannounced. He loved it, even, though that word made him uneasy.  

Maybe it was being in charge, now that he was on the council. People looking to him for words, for answers? That had never been his deal. And now, he felt like a liar, too, when people came to him with things. Their problems or questions.

"Glenn's waiting," Michonne, staring at him all sharp. "You coming?" 

He tried not to seem rattled, but he was, and she was instantly suspicious.

"Daryl," she said. "What's going on."

He shook his head.

"Nuh uh," she said, coming closer. "What is it?"

"Ain't nothing," he said, and pushed past her. He spent the whole run not meeting her eyes, too.

* * *

Another night, Carol came to him, very late. They didn't have a lot of time to see each other; during the day there was always work to do. And she had some thing about bunking up with him; she never said, but he knew that there was something in her, probably leftover from her time with Ed, that made her not want to share in that way. Not that he'd invited her; he figured she'd want to double up together like lots of other people were. He wouldn't have said no. But she had her own clock she lived by and he understood what that was about. Knew the muck that he kept hidden inside him and respected her being slow to tell about it.

Tonight in bed, Carol was putting off the inevitable, though. Wanted to do everything but let him stick his dick in her. He was about ready to lose his mind, all of her twisting around him and over him in the dark, sucking and licking, his hands everywhere, trying to keep up. He could sense her smiling about it, too. She had this little naughty streak in her. You wouldn't guess it; she saved it mostly for him. 

Now she had him on his back and was sucking him off. Only not really sucking; she was really mostly just licking the tip, teasing. She was downright sinful, when you thought about it. Sinful. Beautiful. Killing him.

"Come on, baby," he said, reaching for her, pulling her up, wanting her hips over him.

But she squirmed away. 

"Just a minute," she said.

"Fine," he said, flopping back, trying to make out the stripes in the mattress above him in the faint light. Thinking about the different weights of motor oil. Imagining skinning a squirrel. Which tires needed air on what cars in their fleet. Anything with steps or a long-drawn-out process was good. Though not completely effective.

Because her mouth on him was perfect. Too perfect.

He reached down again and this time, when she looked up, he pulled her up short. Flipped her on her back and was over her before she could say anything.

"Daryl," she said, her voice surprised. But her legs opened wider and he slammed in deep. She was wet and juicy as hell, sucking dick always made her that way, another miracle of her that he'd been happy to find out, and she cried out, a little too loud; they were both careful to not make too much noise, for many reasons.

"Sorry," he said, kissing her. 

Her hands grabbed for his ass and pushed him in deeper and then he couldn't think anymore. A minute later he heard the little gasp of breath she always took when it was happening, felt her pussy clench, then heard and felt her come all over him. 

"Carol, god," he muttered, before he coming himself.

* * *

She only sometimes slept with him on these nights; some nights she had baby duty or other things going on. Again, she wasn't hiding things, he didn't think. Just was nervous about letting him own her, he guessed. Didn't want no man to own her as Ed had owned her. But that night, she stayed. Didn't sit up, gather her clothes, yawn, say see you tomorrow. That night she coiled up next to him, both of them still naked, her skin sticky with sweat, her soft slender feet tangling with his knobby calloused ones, her head on his chest, and he thought it might come out, then. His confession. What was it? How would he explain it? 

But then she just said, "Thank you, Daryl" and drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

The next morning, she was gone. And not just gone from his bed. Gone. Probably dead. Rick said the car she'd taken had a bad alternator and nobody remembered topping it up with gas. Maggie had said Carol told her Michonne was going with her; Michonne reported Carol said she'd be with Maggie.

"We'll find her," Rick said. But his voice sounded unsure.

Daryl couldn't even shake his head. He didn't want anyone going. He didn't want it to be happening. He'd go alone and he'd find her and he'd stop crawling up his own ass with his own bullshit problems. He'd been blind that anything was even going on with Carol. Hadn't seen past his own worries, his own dick, even. This was Carol checking out. 

Did Carol break, too? Like he was breaking? Had the bad luck road gotten to them both? He knew the others probably give him shit for believing in bad luck. In ghosts. The chupacabra. They didn't even know about the killer fog from out in the swamps his mama had told stories about. 

He dropped his crossbow on the breakfast table and all the dishes jumped. Then he ran back up to his cell. Like a little boy sent from the table. There were tears but he didn't even care if anyone saw them. And he knew no one would follow, anyway. Not right away, at least.

* * *

It was Michonne, who came. But that wasn't until late. The moon was high in the window, just rising and her voice was soft but clear.

"Daryl."

He was on the floor. He couldn't bring himself to get in the bed, thinking he'd still be able to smell her on his blankets. Plus he'd slept like the dead and he felt guilty for it, too; another way he'd been selfish. Missing the clues.

Michonne crouched near him. He sat up against the wall.

"I found the car," she said. 

He didn't say anything. He knew she was aware of him sitting there, listening.

"She wasn't in it," she continued. "There was some blood. I don't know whose blood. The keys were still in it. It had run out of gas, completely."

"That why she got out?" he said, his voice scraping along, swallowing the salt raining back into his throat.

"Don't know," Michonne said. "Maybe it was intentional."

"That's what Rick thinks?"

"Can't speak for Rick," she said. "Just saying it plain, though."

"All right," he said. 

"I'll go again in the morning," she said. "If you..."

"All right," he repeated. Wanting her to go. Thanking god she couldn't see his face that well. Though Michonne seemed to have the same sense he did, the one that let him see what went unsaid.

* * *

But he didn't go that next morning. Or the next. He could barely leave his cell. He was afraid of it all. Of going out. Of finding her. Of seeing all their faces, when he'd return without her. Of walkers along the fence line, wearing her red shirt, wearing her face. Carol, covered in death. 

He was sure she was dead. And he'd never told her. He'd never told her everything. Anything. 

Beth brought him food. Herschel checked his heart; he was complaining of chest pains. Glenn told him to quit smoking and buck the fuck up, an unusual move for Glenn, but medicine he himself would have applied had Glenn been acting this dipshit pansy way. He was aware he was being ridiculous. A dipshit. A pansy. But he just couldn't, anymore. Could not. Movement paralyzed him.

Some nights he dreamt of the car Carol had taken. The Jeep with the good tires and the hardtop welded to the frame. He dreamed he took it and stopped on the bad luck road and got out, holding nothing in his hands, just waiting like a piece of meat for death to come scrabbling along with its endless hands and mouths. He'd always wake up before he felt the first walker touch him.

Then he'd lie awake and think of her. What had died with her, out there. Only things he'd be charged to remember now.

_Mama's little sweetie boy._

_Thank you, Daryl._

Nights like these were long, grey tunnels. Endless. When he did fall asleep, the tunnel continued. And when he awoke, even when the sun was out, the grey endless feeling remained. 


	3. Chapter 3

She hadn't eaten in days. At first, this was the point. But now she realized that this was a coward's way. Better to let herself go to the walkers. Better to walk right into their embrace.

But as much as her heart had given out, as much as she'd wished for oblivion and silence and an end to the constant choking regret, she couldn't give herself over to them. She fought them, with a strength driven by disgust and rage. A strength he would have admired. Expected from her, probably. A strength Ed never knew she had in her.

A strength she wished would leave her now.

She would never have any more children. That was the choice she'd made, long before the turn. Long before Ed could have any say about it. Long before Sophia could even talk; she knew she couldn't subject another of God's creatures to the life she was caught in. She had the surgery; Ed never said a word about it, except to bitch that the house was untended for a week. She'd left Sophia with her parents.

It didn't make sense, how the grief was coming hard at her now. They had a life, now. They'd built one, at the prison. They'd taken on new kids. They'd planted and farmed. They'd made a life. And she had Daryl, too. She had as much of him as she imagined he could give another person.

It was feeling happy again that had done it. Unleashed the grief that broke her.

* * *

It had been a gas station. Or some kind of repair place. Most of the food had been looted but the door still worked. Had one of those locks in the doorknob that you clicked in. Locked her away from any sort of wandering herds. There was a water cooler with an extra dusty replacement, too. She slept on the cement floor the first night. Automatically, she looked at the place, sizing it up for safety, for provisions, for what she could do to make it home. It was like part of her couldn't stop surviving. But she just noted it all and laid down on the floor. She was so tired. She wished she would not wake up.

More cowardice.

The next night, she slept in an over-turned car. The next night, in a barn. The next, it was a house. Two walkers on the main floor. She stabbed one and stomped the other's head in with her boot, as it was stuck under a bookcase. Part of her pulled toward cleaning out the corpses, keeping the space liveable. Again, she estimated the weight of the bookcase, imagined it as a barricade, considered the house and its possible entries and exits and assets. But then she just locked herself in a bathroom and collapsed on the bathmat.

_Why can't you do anything right, Carol?_

Ed, again. In her head. He never really left. She thought he might, after that first night with Daryl. But Daryl didn't have enough words to replace Ed's really. Not Daryl's fault, though. He had his own burdens. She could see herself in him sometimes. All too well. It scared her. Made her see through him and his tough act. Made her leave his side at night, just knowing it. Sometimes she thought doing that, leaving him after making love with him, might hurt his feelings. But she couldn't help it. It felt like tending to another child. And she couldn't fall back into that. Not with a grown man. And not after Sophia.

_Why can't you do anything right, Carol?_

In the morning, she woke and found a can of pineapple in the kitchen. Cut it open with her knife, feeling Daryl's words about that - just gonna dull it, doing shit like that - but she didn't care. Maybe that mistake would cost her. Kill her. End it. She couldn't decide why she did it some mornings. Why she left. Why she let Ed keep doing what he did to her. Why she couldn't summon the courage to protect herself and her most treasured girl while she was alive. Why did the ability come too late? Always, too late. Not enough time.

* * *

Her pattern of waking and walking and fending off walkers and traveling nowhere and eating when she could stopped with the house. There was some food, after all. And the heel of her boot kept coming undone and she needed to repair it, or find replacements. She spent a few days, going through the rooms, thinking of how she'd make this place a home. What needed moving and fixing and changing. What kind of people these had been was also something she couldn't help imagining. Seeing their possessions. The wreckage of their shelter. The things that remained; the things that were abandoned. There were two boys and a girl, from the looks of the bedrooms; the boys had shared. The boys had been younger than the girl. She wished she could picture their faces, but there were no pictures left on the walls. She avoided the girl's room. Even though it had a nice bed and was less crowded. She slept in the bathroom, still. Coward.

She found a camp stove in the basement and cooked some rice. She read a couple of the mother's magazines: looked at pictures of products that would never be sold again. Not for money, at least. She washed her hair in the sink with a jug of water she gathered from the creek behind the house, then wiped her body down, standing in the tub. Letting this water drain into the sewer, a waste. At the prison they had hoped to reclaim the water. Reuse it. Here she had to boil the water, as there were walkers in the creek, bloated and rotting.

After eating the rice, she went into the girl's room. She had no reason for this. None. She had no reason for leaving the group, either. She sensed she was waiting now and if it was for death or a sign, she had no idea.

The girl's closet had warm clothes in it. She must have been in high school. Or college. Sweaters in the closet. Jeans. A pair of boots, her size. Not the same durability, but still. Carol sat on the bed. She was barefoot. She had been experimenting with glue on the heel of her other boots; they were drying in the living room. She took off her pants, found a pair of clean socks in a drawer. Bright blue socks. Long and warm. She tried on the boots, next. A perfect fit. Perfect.

She took them off, the unzipping so much louder than the zipping to her ears and then she laid on the bed and began to cry. Holding the knife Daryl had given her so long ago. She held the cold metal between her breasts and sobbed until she was wrung out like a wet sheet and fell asleep, the door to the dangerous world wide open to her.

* * *

"Carol. Carol. Carol."

She didn't want to wake. She was dreaming of nothing. For once, her dreams were empty of horror. It was almost as good as having a good dream. She wondered if good dreams were also a thing of the past. Gone like all the products in those old magazines.

"Carol. Sweetheart."

She opened her eyes.

Daryl. Kneeling over her. His crossbow on his back. His hair was in his eyes.

 _Sweetheart._ Ed had never, not once, called her that. Not even anything _like_ that. She closed her eyes again

She almost wanted to go back to sleep. He was here now and she didn't want to explain. Couldn't. She wanted to see if she could imagine him still. He backed away, then, and she was sure was hallucinating. She hadn't been diligent about eating, really. And how would he have found her? And if he had, why did it take him so long?

"Carol. Come on. Carol?"

She opened eyes again. He was here, again. He had closed the door. He was taking his cross-bow off his back. Setting down his pack. Feeling around her body. His hand warm, a little sweaty, running over her bare legs, her stomach.

"You hurt? What happened?"

She held out the knife to him. Shook her head.

"Not hurt," she said.

"You need water?" he asked, swinging around for a canteen on his pack

She didn't, but her throat was dry. He lifted the canteen to her mouth and she drank. "Good," he said. "That's good."

Then he took off his boots and was beside her, pulling the covers over there. She started to cry. It was like she hadn't done it enough, the sobs choking her. As bad as the night before.

"It's okay," he said, smoothing his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. "Shh. It's okay."

* * *

It was night again when she finally woke. He was still beside her. Sleeping. Exhausted. Dirty. He must have come on foot, if he'd tracked her from the car. Hard to track on his bike. There was an ugly scrape on his forehead, crusty and weeping a little. She could cry, imagining what he'd gone through, looking for her. But she was empty of crying. There was nothing left but to feel humble next to him, his soft breathing the only sound in the world.

She stood up, found her pants. Put on the new boots. Slipped her knife through her belt.

"Carol?" His voice was crackly now.

"Going to get you something to eat," she said.

He sat up, slowly. Like he didn't believe her. She left the door open as she went downstairs. Felt his sharp eyes on her.

* * *

She had almost heated all the rice and some water for tea when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

"In here," she called, softly. Then he was in the kitchen beside her. She handed him a cup of hot tea. He took it, surprisingly, and leaned against the counter. The candles lit between them made it feel like this wasn't a shared meal, or a reunion, but some kind of solemn ritual. He didn't speak, but then, he never really liked to. Instead, he drank the tea and waited as she fixed two bowls of rice for them. Watched while she opened a can of peaches with her knife.

"Come on," she said. He followed her to the dining room and they sat at the table, right beside each other. He ate without pausing for anything; he wasn't a religious man, but no one paused before meals much any more that she noticed. You had to eat before the next bad thing dropped down on you. Being thankful didn't prevent disaster. She knew that now.

Once they finished the rice, she poured syrupy peaches into their bowls.

"Thank you," he said. She nodded, though she knew he sensed that more than saw it; the candles from the kitchen barely made a dent in the darkness.

The sweetness of the peaches filled the room and she couldn't help but say something.

"You think we'll ever have peaches again? You think, once all these cans are used up, will that be it?"

He was pouring the leftover syrup from the bowl into his mouth, a bit of it dripping down his stubbly chin, so it was a moment before he responded.

"Plenty of peaches all over this place," he said. "Ain't any reason for us not to pick 'em. We just need to find a minute to stop and look."

She nodded again. He stood up, took his bowl to the kitchen. When he came back, he was carrying one of the candles. He set it between them and now she could see his face. She exhaled. Put her hands flat on the table. Swallowed.

Then she felt his hand on hers.

"Why'd you go?"

She shook her head. She felt tears. Again. She felt like idiot; all he did was make her cry. He'd not been here a whole day and she'd just bawled like an infant.

"No," he said. "I need you to tell me."

She couldn't talk; her mouth was full of sobs she kept pressing down. She didn't want to be weak for him; she had never wanted that.

"Was it something I did? Did I..."

"No!" she shouted. Pulled her hand away from his. But he wouldn't let her escape. He grabbed for it, again. She wished she could turn the candle over. Snuff it out. She couldn't look at him.

"Could you tell I was feeling it too?" he asked, his voice low.

She looked up. "What?"

"About...checking out. Getting it over with. Stopping this whole damn charade. Just letting it happen so I don't have to keep imagining it."

"You? What? No. Daryl, I...no. I had no idea. None. Why...?"

Now he pulled his hand away. Fiddled with his nose, like it was running.

"Women can tell that," he said in the same low voice. "Smell it on you. When you're about to give up. Or leave. The weakness. They know when it's about to come crashing in."

"Daryl, I..."

"You think you were doing me a favor, probably," he said. Now he was looking straight at her. His palm flat on the table, next to hers. Not touching though. The air electric, alive with his anger. His voice grew louder. "You thought, I'll just let it go, because I can't see him end up that way. I can't put that on him, maybe? I'm gonna give him one more night and then I'll let him off the hook. You thought, maybe he'd be less ashamed. Well, goddammit!" He slapped the table with his palm and she jumped.

Her tears dried. Instantly. She swallowed back the knot in her throat. The signal of violence was there and she had to get ready again. It was in her, the will to survive, no matter what.

"That's not how it was," he said. "Or how it could be. I'm better for you. I am. I'm a better man in every way and the Lord help me, there've been times lately when I've been ready to give in but I want to be that man. Keep being him. Because of you."

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Because of Sophia," she said. "Of course. Because of guilt. Because you think you still owe me for that. That wasn't a failure, Daryl. And I'm not keeping score. You don't owe me some kind of honor because my little girl died. You don't."

He was silent for a while. He pulled his hands back into his lap, twitched. Then started chewing his thumbnail. Then she noticed he was crying. His nose running, his chest heaving trying to hold it in.

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no, Daryl, I didn't mean that...I didn't..."

"It's not you keeping me alive," he said. "I'm not gonna pin that shit on you. It's the idea of..." He choked a little, cleared his throat, trying to regain control. "The idea of us together," he continued, his voice slower and steadier. "The idea that we could do things right, on this side of history. The world turned. We turned it with it, too. For the better. Some people for worse. But not us, Carol. Not us." Then he covered his eyes with his hands, sobbed into his forearm.

She tried to comfort him, take his hand but he shrugged her off.

"No," he said. "No. Maybe you were right to run. Maybe we should have run off, both of us. Just in different directions."

She was silent. She was seeing what this all was. Maybe it was something they'd have to get used to now, in this life. This kind of flight from the reality of what remained. The world had always been broken; reacting to that would never end. No matter the difficulty, the stakes. That was the flight, the fight, of all human time.

She waited until his breathing evened out. Until she felt his body cease its shaking. She put her hand on his face, turned him toward her. Her fingers on his mouth which was turned down in the candlelight.

"Come on," she said.

* * *

The master bedroom was the biggest, with a wide window facing a stand of trees. The moon peered in, heavy and full and white. He set his crossbow and knife on the dresser. She put her knife on the nightstand. She poured a pitcher of water into the basin and washed her hands. He stood beside her and then took his turn. Then she stepped out of her boots, rubbed the back of her ankles where the new fit was chafing her. She'd need to wear them a couple more days here, break them in before they began the long walk back.

"I'm filthy," he said.

"Your clothes are," she agreed.

"All of me," he said. But he took of his jacket and shirt and let them clatter to the floor.

"We can wash tomorrow," she said, turning toward him, stepping out of her pants. And immediately, his hands were on her, pulling her shirt up, slipping beneath the cups of her bra, not caring how rough he was, not caring about anything but feeling her again, alive underneath him. Beside him. On top of him. The bed was thick and soft, and landing in it was like rolling around in a creampuff, a bit of heaven, a luxury and pleasure as steep and true as an orgasm, almost. They both laughed.

"Goddamn," he said. "Can we really leave something like this?"

"Never again," she said. And they stared at each other in the dark, their eyes serious. Both of them knowing what she was really vowing.

He licked her neck, her nipples, her belly-button. Buried his face in her pussy. The wetness all over his face, the sighs and moans slipping out of her mouth.

She let him make her come; she knew he took such pride in it and there was nobody around to hear her, now. Another luxury they'd not have for long. When she finally got his pants off and held him to her, he leaned over her, kissing her as soft as ever, as soft as a man who'd never killed anyone for her. Soft as a man who would kill for her everyday for the rest of his life.

"We run together, from now on," he said, pressing into her until she squeaked from the feeling of him. She circled her hands around his ass, pushed him farther up. Clamped her legs around his thighs as he retreated, then filled her all the way up again.

"Same direction," she said, pressing her forehead to his. "I got it now."

He smiled down at her, kissed her lower lip with a slow ease that told her he was done crying, done tracking. Done worrying. The drama, done.

"Good," he said. "I got it now, too, I think."

Now she laced her fingers over the small of his back, pressed him farther up into her until he squeezed his eyes shut from the shock of good feeling. She smiled back at him.

"Thank you, Daryl," she said. Then he laughed, his face in her neck. Both of them smiling at each other in the dark, all the way to morning.

 

  
  



End file.
